Out, Damned Spot!
by northerlywind
Summary: House gets mugged, and things spiral downward from there. Rated M to be safe Violence, Strong Language
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **Originally this was going to be a story about House cleaning or something (ha ha so punny, right?), but then I had the idea for THIS. I really wanted to do a horror-ish type story for House, but I didn't know what to do exactly. I wanted to try it since that genre is really out of my league. Anyway, I got the title from the play Macbeth.

To the readers of my other fanfic: don't worry, it will still get finished!

Disclaimer: I don't own House, Macbeth, or anything else copyrighted.

Rating: M to be safe, for violence and strong language.

There will be a lot less violence and swearing in the next chapter! The story might turn a little AU, but not much, don't worry.

* * *

House stumbled through the streets, heavily limping on his cane. He was definitely more than a little drunk. His leg hurt, but not as much because of the cloud of alcohol-induced haziness. That, really, had been the only reason for his outing to the bar - alone, he might add. House, supposedly, was just going for a stroll now to clear his head, but he had somehow ended up walking home. It wasn't far. He had taken a taxi here, but for some reason felt like walking home. It didn't seem later than 1 or 2 AM.

House was starting to make his way over a small bridge, running over a creek, when he heard someone call out.

"Hey, Gramps!"

This was followed by a couple noisy jeers and catcalls.

House sped up his pace, even though pain was breaking through his alcohol-barrier and attacking him every second step.

"Hey Gramps, you going to the nursing home?!"

More jeers.

House heard footsteps starting to close in behind him. He hunched his shoulders.

"Wait up, Gramps! I think I know ya! Hey that's right, I fucked your daughter last night!"

Laughter.

Even though he couldn't really think straight, House knew this situation was bad. Really bad.

"Hey Gramps! Wait up! I think I can give ya a ride to the nursing home!"

The footsteps came closer, breaking into a jog now. One of them, a guy with the ever-typical hoodie and baggy jeans, stepped in front of him, barring his way. Two or three others surrounded him.

"Eh? How about it?", said the one facing him. Their faces were obscured by the hoods of their sweaters. "I just need some cash." House could see a wide grin in the wan light of the streetlamps. The man rubbed his fingers together to mime his words. "How about it, eh?"

"No." Of all the times to be a stubborn ass.

"What did ya say, Gramps? Didn't catch that." There was a dangerous silence.

"No." Clearly his drunkenness had knocked common sense straight out the window.

House felt his cane being wrenched from his hand. Futilely, he grasped in the air for it before losing his balance on his bad leg and accidentally stumbling into one of the guys, or thugs, he should say.

"Oho! Gramps wants a fight, does he?!", cried one of them, as they pushed him back and forth painfully across their little circle.

House felt his cane clip him in the back of his knees and he collapsed unwillingly to the ground. "Shit!", he gasped, the pain surging and almost blinding him.

"Didn't your momma teach ya not to swear, Gramps? Or is that whore dead?" The speaker laughed, and the rest joined in.

"Fuck you", gasped House, still in pain, but now anger and pigheadedness took over.

There was another deadly silence.

He could dimly notice a knife being drawn from his peripheral vision. The blade glittered in the lamplight before slashing him in the chest.

Involuntarily crying out in pain, House put his hand to his chest, and saw that his fingers were soaked with blood. The shock of it, even as a doctor, made him retch, nearly missing the thugs' shoes.

Someone kicked him in the side, and he went down.

"So, Gramps, what do ya say about that money business, huh? Gonna give it to us or not?"

House couldn't reply. His eyes were tightly closed with the pain, all the horrible pain.

He felt himself get turned over and frisked. They took off his blazer, leaving him in a chilly white t-shirt, now stained with a growing poppy of red. His wallet was taken out of his back pocket. House could hear them muttering to themselves about the finds. He had a lot of credit cards and random other cards, but only a few coins in terms of cash. The bills had all gone to the booze.

He heard his phone being flipped open and examined. Someone muttered angrily, "This is a piece of shit!", and a few seconds later House heard a shallow plop in the water. Shit.

His pager was taken from him, too. House mourned the last remnants of his means of conversation, even if it was only one-way. He clutched his bad leg, wondering where his Vicodin was- oh, right, in his jacket pocket. Shit. He heard a rustle and a shaking sound that indicated it was being taken out. It was thrown in the creek too. House briefly wondered if it was possible for him to retrieve it. Probably not.

There was nothing, really, of much value. They weren't happy about it.

The one holding his cane hit him with it, catching his bad leg. House tried not to scream. His fingers were clenched into claws, digging into his palms. He could feel the dried blood on them. House heard a distinct cracking sound, and wondered if that was, somehow, one of his bones. The two pieces of his cane were tossed on his head. Oh.

He heard them grumbling angrily, and one of them called him a, "Fucking bastard". He felt a strong kick to his head, and he was knocked unconscious. The last thing he was aware of was that he was being dragged somewhere.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **Whee, another chapter! Could have been longer but I wanted to end it on a cliffhanger. Not to worry, chapter 3 is coming soon!

* * *

House woke in the dark. The sound of running water confused him. He tried to sit up, but his leg jarred against the rocks beneath him and almost sent him huddling into the fetal position. Swallowing, he closed his eyes, trying to banish the splitting headache. He remembered alcohol. A lot of it. He threw up onto the rocks suddenly. He put a hand to his queasy stomach, then wiped his mouth, washing his hand on the puddles of water on the ground.

Gripping the trunk of a sapling, House hauled himself up. Where was he? The edges of his pant leg were soaked, presumably from the water that was flowing near his feet. House squinted, trying to balance on one foot. He tried to peer around him to get his bearings but nothing was familiar. His gaze caught on two familiar objects: his Vicodin bottle, and his cellphone. Both were caught against a few large stones, and weren't getting swept away by the water. He tried to hobble over, but the instant he took a step, he collapsed, scraping his already bloody (?) palms on the sharp rocks. Wincing, he pulled himself up and ungracefully hopped to the cellphone first. Kneeling down on one leg, he scooped it up. House thought a second about the dangers of touching an electronic that had been in water for a second, before dismissing it. He tried to flip it open, but it was broken. Damn. He threw it away. Well, at least he hadn't been electrocuted.

Holding onto various tall cattails, saplings, and such around, he hopped to the Vicodin, nearly falling over. Coughing, House picked it up. Somehow the cap had gone loose, and some water was in it. Not worrying about the sanitary aspects, he swallowed two. For good measure, he swallowed another. Letting the water leak out, he shook out the pills and put them in his pant pocket. As he did so, his hand touched on something unfamiliar. Curiously, House pulled it out. It was a closed switchblade. He turned it over in his hand before throwing it away into the bushes. Odd. He felt in his pockets, but nothing else besides the recently deposited Vicodin pills were there. Damn it. He swiveled around on his left foot, wondering how to get out of this place. He noticed there was a sort of depression in the ground, which was where he was standing, and the water was running. Then the ground elevated onto the road. It was empty.

House hop-limped his way over the creek, soaking his shoes in the process. When he got to the other side, he nearly collapsed again. He was breathing pretty heavily. He looked back and realized he could have gotten up on the other side as well. Oh well. He was already there. Panting, House hopped up the slight hill, holding onto the rail of what seemed to be a bridge. It was dimly lit, with two streetlamps on either side, then darkness beyond. Hopping again, he wondered what to do. What happened earlier?

All House could remember was drinking a _lot_. Then waking up to a bridge with a hell load of pain. The Vicodin was starting to kick in, though, and he was grateful. Coughing again, he wondered why he was so out of breath. He put his right hand to his heart, and when he took it away he was surprised to his wrist wet with blood. For the first time, he looked at himself in the light. His blazer was gone, that was obviously from the start. His once-white t-shirt was ripped at one part and covered with dried blood. His pants were largely undamaged: there were a few rips and tears in places, and the bottom part was wet from the water. House rubbed at his leg, wondering if he should take another Vicodin. No, he'd save it. There were only four left.

He touched his fingers to the right side of his chest cautiously, and the sudden pain, even through the Vicodin, had him gasp. House opened the tear in his shirt wider and was shocked to see a scar, a couple inches long, wet with blood. House probably looked a mess. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he continued his hop-limp gait. For the first time, he wondered where his cane was. For the first time, he actually had a good idea. Hopping to the side of the road, he pulled at one of the strong branches that was partially hanging off a sapling. Though the effort caused him significant pain, he managed to pull it out, stumbling a little. Breaking off the tiny branches at the end, he used it as a makeshift cane. Though it was largely unstable and ineffective, it was better than hopping on one foot all the way to... somewhere.

House looked up as he walked along the road. The sun was just beginning to break, and he could see ever-so-pale lines of light across the horizon. If he kept walking, he rationalized, eventually he'd get somewhere. He saw a little plaza. It was empty, since all the stores were closed, but there was a payphone. He started to limp towards it before realized he had no money. No, there weren't any coins scattered on the road either. Frustrated and disappointed, he continued. He was starting to recognize this area. He wasn't sure how far he walked, but his feet were leading him to a familiar house. House laboriously climbed the steps and rung the doorbell, collapsing a second later.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **Very short filler!

* * *

There was only one person that would be asinine enough to ring Lisa Cuddy's doorbell at 5 AM in the morning. She tied herself in a bathrobe and told Lucas to take care of the crying Rachel. Opening the door, she snapped, "What is it now, House?!" Then she looked down and saw him.

He. Looked. _Awful_.

There was a lot of blood. On his chest, on his hands, on his arms, even some on his face. His shirt was torn, his clothes were muddied and ripped. His usually bright blue eyes were half-closed and dull.

Lisa gasped and kneeled down, even hearing the crying of Rachel behind her. "House!", she cried. "What happened to you?" She held out her hand and was surprised to see him take it. She pulled him up to a standing position and he almost fell sideways onto the grass.

He just shook his head.

Lisa noticed that the thing he held in his hand was not, in fact, his cane, but actually just a stick. She was intensely puzzled by this, but also worried. What had House gotten himself into this time?

The crying behind her died down, but Lisa didn't notice. "Oh my god", she said, her eyes stinging. She was shocked. Beyond shocked. She had no idea what to do and - oh god this was awful absolutely horrible oh what could she do?! Lisa noticed House clearly wincing as he swayed on his feet. One hand was pressed against his chest, where the worst of his blood was.

"I'm going to call the hospital", she said quickly, but she wasn't sure what to do with House there. _She_ almost felt nauseous at all the blood, and that was only from looking at it. It was a wonder he wasn't throwing up on her lawn. "Come in", she said, before running to the phone and dialing. As Lisa talked with as much detail as possible, she watched him limp heavily to her couch and fall into it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **Okay, so ends the final chapter of the day. Until I think of what happens next. ;)

* * *

House woke up to pain. He supposed he had drifted asleep at some point. He fumbled in his pocket until he found his Vicodin. He took two. There was a towel, bed sheet, or something underneath him, and he was lying on a bed. Hospital bed? He craned his neck and looked around. No? He curled his fingers and noticed they were cleaner. He looked to the side and realized there was a trash can with a bunch of bloodied tissues and cotton wads thrown in. Remembering, he felt for his wound. It was clean, and covered by a bandage. It _seemed_ like he was in a hospital. But he wasn't. It looked more like an ordinary bedroom. House still had the same clothes on.

House realized there was an angry buzz of voices outside. Sitting up, he swung his legs over to the side of the bed. Holding onto various pieces of furniture, he started to limp to the door. Opening it, he heard the angry voice of Cuddy, and another unfamiliar calm female voice.

"I don't understand why you would-"

"It's just a precaution, all we have to do is ask a few questions"

"There's no reason for it!"

"We just have to make sure. Once we get things sorted out, it will be fine."

Tilting his head in confusion, House limped into the hallway, a hand on the wall for support. Rounding the corner, he noticed Cuddy and a woman in police garb. Both noticed him at the same time, and the policewoman stepped towards him.

"Mr. House, if you'd just answer a few questions for me."

House looked around warily. Coughing and clearing his throat, he asked, "Why?"

"We just want to know a few things. Where you were last night, namely."

"What are you, my mother?", asked House, laughing painfully.

The woman looked annoyed with him, and Cuddy a mixture of angry-annoyed-worried in general.

"If you're not cooperating, I'm afraid we'll have to-", the woman started.

"I was in a bar okay? Drinking. You going to give me a fine for that?"

The woman looked more annoyed. "Drinking? Where?"

"The bar", said House sarcastically. He actually didn't remember which one.

"_Which_ bar?", she was starting to sound annoyed too.

"The one... over there", said House, waving his arm vaguely. "The nearest one. There's a stone lion at the front or something."

Nodding, the woman took out a notepad and wrote something.

House squinted his eyes. "What is this for?", he asked suspiciously.

"What happened next?"

"I drank. I got drunk. Then I came here."

The policewoman stared at him. "That's all? Are you sure you didn't do anything in between, Mr. House?"

"I got drunk. I passed out."

"You passed out _in_ the bar. Then you came here?", clarified the woman.

House was a little uncomfortable. "Yes."

"_Nothing_ in between?"

House paused, glancing at Cuddy, who was worriedly biting her lip. She noticed his gaze and smiled at him, though her eyebrows were creased. "I... passed out, and I woke up at a bridge", he said finally.

"A bridge? Which bridge?"

"I don't remember okay?! If you haven't realized, I was _drunk_. There was a little river thing under it. Two lights." He watched as recognition crossed the woman's face.

"Then what did you do?"

"I was in a lot of pain, I wasn't sure what was going on, so I walked and came here. The end." Annoyed, House started to limp away.

"How long have you had that limp, Mr. House?"

"What kind of stupid question is that?", snapped House, whirling around. "Ages. What, are you going to work your magic and make it disappear?"

The woman didn't seem fazed. She wrote something down again. "And have you had _that_ for _ages_, Mr. House?", she asked, pointing the end of her pen at his chest wound.

"I cut it on a rock. Lots of sharp rocks there. You can go check."

The woman nodded slowly, more to herself than at his statement. Closing the notebook with a snap, she said, "Thank you for the time, Mr. House, and Ms. Cuddy." Then she walked away.

As the door shut, House turned to Cuddy. "What was that about?", he asked, leaning against the wall in exhaustion.

Cuddy sighed, shaking her head. "They think you killed someone."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** THIS BRINGS A WHOLE NEW MEANING TO DRAMATIC IRONY, DOESN'T IT?

This is where the Macbeth quote starts to come into play! Yeah, and that part about no more chapters today? I guess I lied. Also, if anyone's catching on, the premise for this story is sort of based on that scene in Tom Sawyer with the graveyard, Injun Joe, Potter, and Doctor Robinson. But will the story end the same way? Who knows... dun dun dun.

* * *

"What?!"

Shock.

Then sputtered laughter.

"What the hell makes them think that?", asked House, running his hand through his mess of hair. His fingers clenched around a fistful of his hair. "I'm a doctor. I thought we got all the law suits figured out by now." He released his hair, sending a few locks of it fluttering to the ground. He looked up at Cuddy, who had a sad look on her face.

"No", she said, shaking her head. "It's not that. Yesterday. Last night. Well, this morning, technically - there was a murder. A young woman was killed. Near that bridge you were talking about. They think you had the motives for it."

"That's ridiculous!", shouted House angrily. "I was in the goddamn bar because of the pain! I had too many drinks, I passed out. Doesn't mean I fucking _killed_ someone!"

Cuddy recoiled. "I'm just saying they have the facts to incriminate you. You don't have an alibi. You could have easily done it between the time you went to the bar, and the time you came here. The preliminary tests show that as the approximate time of death."

"NO!!", he shouted, shaking his head, though his face had gone sickly pale. "It wasn't me. Cuddy, you have to believe me. It wasn't me. I was just drunk. Okay? Sue me. But I didn't _kill_- no, I _wouldn't_..." House felt like he was going to throw up again. They thought _he_ did it? They thought the cripple had killed someone? They had to be kidding.

This was just a bad dream. A nightmare.

It _was_ a nightmare.

Except it didn't seem to be able to stop.

Somehow his mind strayed, remembering the knife that was previously in his pocket. The blood on his hands. The mysterious chest wound. He shuddered, closing his eyes, feeling the bile that rose to his throat. He swallowed, pushing it back down, realizing that his nails were digging into his palms, opening the small wounds again. "You believe me, don't you?", he said, almost hysterically, a wild look in his eyes.

House noticed hesitation; the way she was _just slightly_ leaning away from him... the way she looked over her shoulder briefly without realizing it.

_A young woman was killed._

_A young woman._

_Like Cuddy. _

It suddenly dawned on him what Cuddy was thinking. He couldn't believe it. His breath was coming out in gasps. He had never been like this before. Thoughts were crowding him, and threatening to overtake what little sanity was left at this point. House tried to steady his breathing but he was almost hyperventilating.

"We'll figure this out", said Cuddy, reassuringly, but there was a definite note of doubt in her tone. She didn't answer his question.

"I'm a sick and twisted bastard, Cuddy... but you have to know I would never kill anyone, never, I wouldn't-", he cut himself off by a long, shuddering gasp.

"You were _drunk_, House, you said it yourself, you said you didn't remember-", whispered Cuddy, her eyes rimmed with fear.

"IT WASN'T ME!", he roared, coughing. "If you don't believe me, I don't know what to do, please, Cuddy, _please._"

Cuddy looked at him guiltily. House could tell she was thinking of when she opened her front door and saw him bleeding there.

"Okay. We just have to sort things out. Tell me everything you remember, and don't leave anything out." She led him into the living room, surprisingly calm.

His breathing growing steadier, he closed his eyes. "My leg was hurting a lot. I thought alcohol would help the pain. I went to the nearest bar I knew, had drinks... had a lot of drinks. More than I can remember. I remember.... I remember leaving it. I don't know what time that was. Then I woke up." Oh, god, that sounded horrible, the story sounded fake even to his own ears. There was water around me. My jacket was gone, everything was gone including my cane. I definitely had it before. I saw my phone, and Vicodin a few steps away. The phone was dead, so I threw it away. The Vicodin... I took three. I put the rest of them in my pocket." House pulled the pills out briefly. "Then... I got a branch for a cane. I started walking. Then I came here." He had omitted the part about the knife. It was creepy enough, and House didn't want - he didn't want Cuddy to think of him as a... as a... murderer. The thought nearly sent him into a panic attack.

"That's it? That's all you remember?", Cuddy closed her eyes. "Where did your stuff go?"

"I... I don't know", he said, helplessly. "The phone, the pills... were there. Everything else, gone."

They both jumped at the doorbell. Exchanging a glance, Cuddy stood up to open the door, and was greeted by two police officers.

House realized there were lights flashing outside.

"We'd need Gregory House to come with us."


End file.
